Tender Savage (Siren Publishing Allure) Read Free

sprinkler system installed, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember anything of that sort happening, and what did it matter now anyway? Peering along the walkway, she was shocked by the destruction, wadding and pipes dangled bare of any coating, wires were hanging loose, and the once soft, cream leather seats were ripped and singed. Scorched and torn interior dripping with water, ruined carpet, debris, broken glass, and china met her eyes. Some of the seats had been torn away and were she knew not where. The cockpit was nowhere to be seen. She surmised that it had either been ripped viciously away from the body of the craft and blown to smithereens or crashed somewhere nearby. She hesitated. So, what had happened to the pilot and copilot?
    Cautiously, she moved toward the place where she had sat. She’d been thrown about the plane as it hit the ground and was sure that it was only her seat belt that had saved her. Although upon reflection, she couldn’t remember releasing her belt and crawling out. Glancing across to the seat where the businessman had sat, she stopped just short and drew a trembling breath. He was obviously dead, his eyes wide and blank and his head hanging at an angle, which she suspected meant a broken neck. There was no sign of the stewardess, and where the couple had once been, there was only the man, and she breathed quickly, trying not to be sick. He had a piece of metal embedded in his chest. The blood that had poured out of the wound was now dry and covered in flies. She retched as an insect crawled out of his open mouth. Terrified, she turned quickly and scurried out of the wreckage, heaving wretchedly.
    Crying was her only solace now, and she cried bitter tears, the droplets falling down her grubby cheeks, burning the raw, red scratches that marred her once-perfect skin. Her head ached, and she wanted nothing more than to be in the comfort of her own home, protected from insects and rain. She looked up as another downpour drenched her. She wanted to be safe from wild animals, horrible insects, and—her breath caught—cannibals.
    In a sudden surge of panic, she searched around for a weapon and, picking up a piece of metal torn off the plane as it crashed, tested its weight, cutting her hand in the process. Shaking her hand as the stinging cut bled profusely, she snatched up a piece of cloth torn from someone’s clothing and wrapped it around her hand. At least now she had some means of defending herself, so if anyone tried to eat her, she’d make their life hell first. An ace at tennis, she had a mean backhand. Keeping the weapon close, she came to the unwilling conclusion that she was here for a few hours at least.
    Rescue was sure to arrive soon, but until they did, as she was sick of being wet, she would have to rig up some kind of shelter. Her short-sleeved silk blouse was plastered like a second skin to her generous curves, and tugging at it, she wondered whether she could pluck up the nerve to go back in the plane and find her bag.
     
    * * * *
     
    Three hours later, she had rigged a silver-backed blanket found in a box marked “survival packs” from two trees. Since she was afraid of heights, so obviously not a climber, the stature of the refuge was by necessity only big enough to crawl under, but it would for the time being keep her dry. Collecting some magazines and articles of clothing that were scattered around the clearing, she spread them on the ground to act as a kind of ground-sheet, and from the survival packs, she’d also purloined some dry trail mix and some crackers. Finding her hand luggage had been an added bonus, and she began to feel a little better after changing her top, cleansing her face, and retouching her makeup. Her fingers closing around a bottle of insect repellent gave her a sense of satisfaction, and she used it liberally on her exposed flesh and on the blanket, magazines, and surrounding area. So much for fat, hairy spiders, she thought a trifle